Mother of the Bride

by Lynn Michaels

  Cydney stood with her back mostly to him, the head she’d beaten into the eggs hissing and settling into the bowl. Grease popped in the skillet and she jumped, dropped the whisk and grabbed a fork.

  “Every night he cries himself to sleep. And he whimpers.” Gus watched Cydney lay the sausages out to drain on a paper towel. “You sleep in a chair by his bed so you can pat him back to sleep. He’s exhausted and pale when he wakes up in the morning. He opens his eyes and he sees you and he gives you this oh-hell-it’s-you look that makes it hurt when you breathe, but you ignore it and you start over. Every day you start over. Tears and tantrums, the angry, bruised little eyes. Every night he cries and every night it’s the chair and the whimpering and the patting till you think it’s never going to stop.”

  Cydney swung the sausage pan into the sink. Her hand quivered as she lifted the cast-iron skillet onto the burner. She coated it with butter, dredged a slice of bread and tossed it, sizzling, into the pan.

  “And then one morning he wakes up, blinks at you like he always does, and you’re bracing yourself for the oh-shit-you-again look, and he smiles. Then he stands up on his knees and raises his hands and you pick him up. He puts his arms around your neck and his head on your shoulder. You kiss his little head and he hugs you, and that’s it. He’s yours and you’re his and you’d lay down your life to make sure nothing ever hurts him this bad ever again.”

  A slice of soaked French bread hung from the fork in Cydney’s hand. Gus watched the crust tear away and the whole thing plop back into the bowl. Smoke rolled off the cast-iron skillet, but Cydney just stood there until Gus got up. Then she dropped the fork and switched off the burner, wheeled and threw her arms around his rib cage, her face buried in his T-shirt. Gus held her, pressed his cheek to her hair and felt a sob shudder through her.

  “It was rough with Bebe,” she sniffled, “but nothing like that.”

  “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’m wrong about Aldo and Bebe. Maybe they’re not a disaster, maybe they’re perfect together. Two abandoned little angels who managed to find each other.”

  “Oh Gus!” Cydney wailed and sobbed against his chest.

  He let her cry, rubbing his hands on her back, molding her breasts to his chest. When she sighed, her warm breath fanned the tear spot on his T-shirt and stuck it to his left nipple. Gus felt himself stir and kissed the top of her head.

  “Boy do I feel shallow,” she said, a watery quaver in her voice. “No wonder you wrote the Grand Plan to Wreck the Wedding.”

  “Well thanks, but it wasn’t the answer. Or the right thing to do.”

  “But now I understand why you wrote it. Poor Aldo.” She gave a quivery sigh. “Poor little guy.”

  “Don’t feel too bad for him. He doesn’t remember those first few weeks after Artie and Beth died, and he figured out pretty quick how to work me. ‘Course, I let him.”

  “Oh Bebe, too. My mother had such a guilt complex. She was sure it was her fault, that she must’ve done something or said something that gave Gwen the idea it was perfectly fine to dump her child and go on with her life. My mother bent over backwards to make up for it and I jumped right in and helped her.”

  “Ah, overcompensation. I know it well.”

  “I love my life. I really do.” Cydney backed out of his embrace, tugged the dish towel off the handle on the oven door and used it to wipe tears from her amazingly long, amazingly dark eyelashes. “But I feel abandoned, like Bebe dumped me—just like Gwen dumped her. And I feel so damn angry because I did this to myself.”

  “I did the same thing, babe. Picked up the shovel when Aldo was a little guy and dug this hole in my life with my own hands.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel.” She smiled at him, a dazzling, sparkly-eyed smile that made his pulse jump. “And you do, too?”

  Gus curved his hands around her hips, eased her against his zipper and felt himself stiffen. “I told you we had a lot in common.”

  “You tried to tell me.” She laid her hands on his chest, scraped a fingernail on a tearstain, which made him shiver. “Now if I could just figure out what to put in Bebe’s place.”

  How about me? The words jumped from his crotch to his tongue. But the phone rang—thank God the phone rang. Cydney loved her life. He’d given her a wonderful, memorable night and that’s all she wanted. How lucky could a guy get? So why was he scowling?

  Gus grabbed the phone on the wall by the swinging door, leaned his shoulder on the jamb and said hello.

  “Hey, Uncle Gus. How’s it look out there in the boondocks?”

  He thought about it. For the two seconds it took to swing around and watch Cydney scrape the cast-iron skillet with a spatula as she carried it toward the sink and the garbage disposal.

  “Pretty dim, pal. No lights and no heat,” he told Aldo. “Wherever you and Bebe are, you better stay there.”

  Cydney blinked at him, the slice of French toast oozing off the spatula, and arched a what-are-you-doing eyebrow at him.

  “The plows have been out here in Branson,” Aldo said. “The roads are clear and the sun’s melting the ice like crazy.” “Cloudy as hell here. Looks like it’s gonna snow again. Any second.” Cydney plunked the skillet on the counter and swung a glance at the window. At the sun blazing through it and the icicles dripping like waterfalls off the eaves, then frowned at him. “The driveway’s blocked, two trees down. I’ve gotta call Elvin and see if he can come out with his truck and tow bar. You and Bebe better sit tight in Branson.”

  “Okay,” Aldo said cheerfully. “I’ll call you later.” “Call me in the morning.” Gus hung up and faced Cydney. “Why did you lie to Aldo?” She stood at the sink with her hands on her hips. “Why did you tell him to call you in the morning?”

  “I plan to be very busy the rest of today and tonight.” “Oh really?” She folded her arms and smiled. “Doing what?” “C’mere.” Gus crooked a finger at her. “I’ll show you.” She dipped her chin and came toward him, smiling slyly through her lashes and plucking at her hair. Gus drew a breath—and cursed as the damn phone rang again.

  “Don’t move.” He pointed at Cydney. She stopped and he answered the phone with a curt, “‘Lo?”

  “Good morning, Angus. It’s Georgette. How’s the weather?” “Looks like it’s going to snow again. We’ve got trees blocking the road. No lights and no heat. How’s Arkansas?”

  My mother? Cydney mouthed at him. Gus nodded. She smiled.

  “Herb thought we could make it back,” Georgette said. “But not if the roads are blocked. When do you think they’ll be clear?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Maybe not till tomorrow.” “What an awful shame,” Georgette said happily. “I’ll just have to do some more shopping. I trust you and Cydney are coping?”

  “We’re managing. We’ve got a nice fire going.”

  Gus winked. Cydney gave her eyebrows a hubba-hubba wiggle.

  “No matter how bored you get, Angus, don’t play Scrabble with her. She’ll beat the pants off you.”

  “Too late, Georgette. She already whupped me at strip Ping-Pong.”

  Georgette laughed. So did Cydney, clapping a hand on her mouth.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Drive safely.” He hung up and swung around, grinning at Cydney.

  She took her hand off her mouth and grinned back at him. “She told you not to play Scrabble with me, didn’t she?”

  “Yep.” Gus took two giant steps toward her, swooped Cydney up in his arms and spun her in a circle. She looped her arm around his neck, laughing. “What are you doing?”

  “Filling the hole in my life.” Her laugh snapped off and she blinked at him, her eyes huge. “Just temporarily. We’re both in the same leaky boat. Don’t see why we can’t help each other bail.”

  “Oh—temporarily. Whew.” She blew out a sigh that ruffled one of the curls she’d tugged over her forehead. “You scared me.”

  “What did you think I meant? Forever?”

  �
��You? Me?” She pressed a hand to her throat. “Forever?”

  Why did she say it like that? Like you, me and forever didn’t belong in the same sentence? And why the you-gotta-be-kidding edge in her voice? Gus felt a scowl coming on but shrugged it off.

  “Well, forever or next Saturday,” he said. “Whichever comes first.”

  “Oh—fine. Next Saturday will be here long before forever.”

  “And tomorrow will be here before we know it.” Gus wheeled toward the swinging door. Cydney pushed it out of the way, he carried her through it and stopped. “Okay. There are eight couches and sixteen beds, counting mine. Where do you want to start?”

  “Twenty-four horizontal surfaces?” She cocked her head dubiously. “In twenty-four hours?”

  “You don’t think I can do it?”

  “I don’t think I can do it.”

  “C’mon, old poop.” He gave her an affectionate jostle against his chest. “Let’s give it a shot.”

  “Does last night count?”

  “Maybe. If we get crunched for time, we’ll count those four.”

  “Let’s start with your bed. And it was five.”

  “It was four.” Gus bounded onto the dais and swung up the steps.

  “It was five. Twice in your bed.” She held up as many fingers. “Twice in front of the fire. And—?”

  “That’s it.” Gus carried her through his office. “That’s four.”

  She slapped him on the chest. “You forgot the bathtub.”

  “I didn’t forget the bathtub. I may have that bronzed, too.” He put her down beside the bed, his breath quickening, and ripped off his T-shirt. “But the tub doesn’t count.”

  He reached for her sweater but she jammed her hands on her hips, holding the hem of it firmly in place. “Why doesn’t the tub count?”

  “It’s not a horizontal surface. It’s curved.”

  “The back and the sides are curved, Gus. The bottom is flat.”

  “You’re wasting precious seconds. Do I have to get a level?”

  “No.” She slipped her arms around him, rubbed her nose in his chest hair and smiled up at him. “You have to get the can of whipped cream and the jar of maraschino cherries in the fridge.”

  “Miss Parrish.” Every inch of Gus quivered. “I’m shocked.”

  “We’ve only got twenty-four hours, bub.” She kissed his chest. “We’ll have to snack as we go to keep up our strength.”

  “Get naked.” He gave her a quick, hard kiss. “I’ll be right back.”

  Gus flew downstairs, nearly sprang the swinging door off its hinges as he burst past it and flung open the refrigerator. The whipped cream was in the door but he had to hunt for the cherries, found them at last behind the leftover pot roast. How did Cydney know they were there?

  Who the bell cares, Munroe, his inner voice said. Get upstairs.

  Cydney lay naked in his bed, the sheet just covering her breasts. She smiled when he came through the door and stretched her arms over her head. The sheet slipped and so did most of Gus’ brain. Straight to his groin. He’d spent a lot of time with his mouth and his hands on her breasts, but he’d seen them only by firelight or candlelight. In the bright sun bouncing off the snow and slanting through the window they gleamed soft and silky, small but perfect, her nipples peaked and peach-kissed like her mouth.

  “I’ll take that.” She held her hand out for the whipped cream.

  Gus tossed her the can and shucked off his jeans, loosened the lid on the maraschino cherries and put the jar on the table. Cydney plumped the pillows against the headboard, sat back on her heels and bit the lid off the whipped cream.

  “Have a seat,” she said, shaking the can.

  Gus swung into bed and sank back against the pillows, hard and eager, every pulse point in his body leaping. God she was lovely. A slim, svelte little nymph with a wicked gleam in her almond eyes. She started with his toes, squirting them with cold whipped cream and licking it off with her hot little mouth. A dollop on his knees, couple on his thighs. He held his breath when she glanced up at him through her lashes, raised the can—and spritzed his navel.

  He groaned with disappointment and she grinned, bent her head and made a long, slow stroke with her tongue that left him gasping and clutching the sheets. He reached for her when she slid into his lap, but she wagged a finger.

  “Not so fast,” she said, pressing the nozzle of the can to his chest and capping his nipples with whipped cream. “Hand me the cherries.”

  Gus did, his hand trembling. She unscrewed the lid and plucked out a cherry. By the stem, with her teeth, capped the jar and gave it back to him. He gave it a toss and she laughed in her throat, the cherry trembling between her lips, then bent her head and dragged it over his chest. Back and forth, making him shiver and his chest hair prickle, rose on her knees and teased it across his mouth, slid her arms around his neck and buried her nipples in the mounds of whipped cream she’d smeared on him.

  Gus grabbed her hips and dove, sucked her breasts clean, ringed her nipples with his tongue and felt her shiver. He glanced up at her, at the cherry glistening between her lips, caught it in his teeth as he lifted Cydney over him and thrust inside her. Once, twice, crushed the cherry in his jaw, and came hard, deep inside her, bucking her on top of him, scooped one breast into his hand and one into his mouth, his mind and his body a searing, red-hot blaze.

  She clutched his hair and tugged his head back, clamped her mouth over his and pumped. Trembling and whimpering in her throat till she arched and he felt the spasm that shook her and quivered a cry up her throat. He sucked it into his mouth with her tongue and held her in his hands, sleek and shivering while the climax rippled through her.

  When she moaned and went limp, he rolled her on her side, crossways on the bed, and cuddled down beside her. Tucked her left arm beneath his neck, kissed the pulse throbbing in her throat and drew the covers over them.

  “Oh my.” She sighed, a shudder in her voice. “Oh Gus.”

  “I have a confession.” He nuzzled her collarbone. She stiffened and he glanced up at her. “I hate maraschino cherries.”

  She laughed and curled her arms around his neck, kissed his nose and slid her foot between his legs. Gus pulled her against him, breast to breast, and let her stretch, pressed his hand to the small of her back and rubbed himself against her.

  “Mmmm. Maybe you can do twenty-four in twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m willing to die trying.”

  She laughed, slid her hand between them and stroked him gently. Gus felt himself stirring again, cupped her breast and tweaked her nipple, felt it peak and a breathy sigh tremble up her throat. He tucked a pillow beneath their heads. She snuggled into it, kissed his chin and feathered him delicately with her fingertips. He stroked her breasts, softly from the underside up to her nipples till they were both pebbled and hard beneath his thumb. So was he, pulsing in the hand she’d closed around him, her eyes bright and glazed, her mouth soft and dewy.

  “Ready when you are,” she whispered against his lips, circling the head of him with her thumb.

  He rolled her over, raised and spread her knees and slid inside her wet, hot body, stretched her arms over her head, locked their fingers and kissed her, gave her his tongue and let her play with it, nip it and suck it while he stroked her. Slow and sweet, taking his time, watching her eyes and her breath, waiting till her lashes fluttered and she dug her nails into his shoulders, then drove into her hard and fast. She beat him to climax by half a heartbeat, a cry flinging her head back, then she wound around him, arms and legs tight, and held him while his mind blurred.

  “My God.” Gus rolled off her and caught her hand, drew it to his mouth and held it there, his heartbeat pulsing in his lips. “I had no idea I could do two in a row like that.”

  She rolled toward him and sighed. “Me, either, old poop.”

  Gus chuckled and kissed her hand. She nuzzled his shoulder, ran a finger across his lips. Gus sucked it and she purred, “Mmm
m.”

  “What time is it?” He pushed up on his elbows and his stomach growled. Cydney popped up beside him. “Time to feed you.”

  She scooted to the edge of the bed, picked up her sweater and tugged it over her head. She stood up, yelped and turned to face him, a bright red stain of cherry juice splashed across her chest.

  “Oops,” Gus said. “Guess I’m buying you a new sweater.”

  She leveled a finger at him. “You’re buying me a new truck.”

  “I’m buying you a new sweater and a new truck.”

  “Darn skippy. Got a shirt I can borrow?”

  “In the closet.” Gus watched the sweet little curve of her backside walk away from him and smiled.

  She peeled off her sweater, tugged a blue cotton shirt off a hanger and slipped it on. The tails hung to her knees, the sleeves way past her wrists. She whistled as she did up the buttons and rolled the cuffs. God, she looked adorable.

  “Be right back.” She blew him a kiss and padded away on her small bare feet. What was she, a two? Her shoe size a five, maybe?

  He’d have to find out so he could buy her a sweater. And lingerie. Oooh, yeah. He’d never bought lingerie for a woman, but he couldn’t wait to get Cydney into Intimate Apparel. And out of it as fast as he could. He’d take her shopping tomorrow, soon as Aldo came back with his truck, which reminded him—Cydney’s Jeep, crunched under the oak tree in the driveway.

  He sat up, lifted the receiver on the clock radio/telephone that picked up AM stations in Canada on the handset but garbled all his phone calls. Because it was Sunday, he dialed Elvin at home.

  “Sheriff Cantwell,” he said, over a crackle of static and the murmur of a French voice. Quebec coming through loud and clear.